The Holmes Vortex
by Falcon's Hyperdrive
Summary: Bartender, Bounty Hunter...Bodyguard? This isn't what Aidan had in mind when she moved into 221C Baker St. She had meant to just do her job while hiding from the people out to kill her, keeping both secret from her housemates. A desperate compromise with Mycroft Holmes, however, changes all of this. Now she has to do her job, plus keep Sherlock safe-preferably without him knowing.
1. Chapter 01

-First, let me promise you that this will not be a romance of any sort. This will NOT be a Sherlock/OC or John/OC, or a Mycroft/OC. Any positive relationships between the main character and the others will be purely friendship and nothing more.

-Second, please inform me if my character ever even encroaches on being a Mary Sue. I can't promise I will change much, as I already have the large plot points mapped out, but I will do what I can to fix any major issues.

-Third, as of this current moment the third season of _Sherlock_ has not come out yet, and so I am aware that this all will soon be AU. That will not hinder my writing of this, though I will do what I can to incorporate elements such as Mary Morstan into the story. As slowly as I write, I may be able to do that without having to change too much.

-Fourth, I can't promise I will update this very often once I catch up to where I've written so far. I ask that you be patient with me, and I hope that you find this story worth the wait that you will encounter. I will update, even if it takes me three or more months to get over writer's block and finish a new chapter.

-Fifth, I am American. This story is set in Britain. If I get anything wrong at all, please inform me so I can change it (though I will not be changing my spelling, sorry; tire will be tire, not tyre, and aluminum will be spelled that way in every situation it might come up except when actually spoken by characters other than the main character). I visited England for three weeks, but that is nowhere near enough time to properly absorb things.

-Sixth, there is no sixth. I hope you enjoy reading this thing as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Now, without further rambling, my story.

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**The Holmes Vortex**

A _Sherlock Fan Fiction_

_By Falcon's Hyperdrive_

Begun 9-7-12

Finished _-_-_

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**Chapter One**

The first time she encountered him on the streets of London, he stole her cab. Granted, he was rather distracted and probably didn't even realize what he had done. Then again, maybe he did—he noticed everything, after all. But she didn't complain, and just hailed another as she realized that getting upset would not help matters.

She had no idea who he was, at the time. Tall, thin fellow with dark brown curls, long coat, and a dark blue scarf. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and- she couldn't tell what else, because he got into the cab too quickly for her to get a good look. He was alone, so after he got in he lost no time in closing the door and giving directions to the cabbie. She got into her own cab, which answered her hail, and set her duffle bag on the floor by her feet. "221 Baker Street, please," she said, sitting back. The cabbie pulled away from the curb, and she turned to the window to watch London go past.

**. . . ** **... . . .**

"Oh, hello, dear. I'm sorry, I'm afraid Sherlock's gone out."

Aidan blinked at the greeting as an elderly woman opened the front door to the house. Who was Sherlock? "That's quite fine, madam. I wasn't here to see . . . him?" She guessed at the gender, though the name was usually a good indicator. "Actually, are you Mrs. Hudson?"

It was the other woman's turn to be surprised now. "Yes, I am. Oh, forgive my manners. Please, come in. Would you like a cuppa?"

She smiled. "Tea would be lovely, thank you. I'm Aidan Mallory, by the way. I was wondering, were you still interested in renting out your basement flat? 221C, I believe it was."

Mrs. Hudson paused at the door of her flat and turned to face her guest. "Why, yes. Although, I must warn you that it's not in a good state."

Aidan shook her head. "That's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. I just want a place to sleep for as long as I can rent it. I can work at fixing it up in my free time, even."

The landlady led her into her own flat and got busy fixing the tea. "I must say, that place having an occupant is appealing. I must warn you, however, that Sherlock keeps very odd hours upstairs. I have no doubt that you would be able to hear his violin being played at four in the morning, or his pistol going off at any hour. I must also warn you that his experiments are quite . . . unorthodox."

Aidan smiled as she accepted her cup and shrugged. "I'd have to experience it firsthand of course, but I'm fairly certain that it wouldn't bother me too much. What on earth does he do?"

"Well, he's a detective of sorts, you see." Mrs. Hudson settled down into the chair across from her and smiled. "Consulting detective, he calls it. He helped me out some years ago, making certain that my husband faced his execution in America."

The young woman was glad she had swallowed her sip of tea as she nearly choked, and lowered her cup to stare at her host in disbelief. A few second later, she processed the information and chuckled. "You seem quite fond of him. I have no doubt your late husband was not a pleasant fellow. Well then, at least I'll not have to be worried about my housemate's profession."

"Oh, don't you worry, dear. Dr. Watson, his flatmate, keeps him in line a bit. Those two are so good for each other."

Aidan grinned. "I look forward to meeting this Dr. Watson, then. So, what would I be paying for the flat?"

"Let's finish our tea, then I'll take you down to see it. You should probably examine the place before we decide on an agreeable price. How did you hear of it, by the way? I've not put an advert in the papers for quite a while."

She sipped her tea as she thought that through. "Well, through rather roundabout channels, actually. Apparently Mrs. Turner told Ms. Johnson, who told Mrs. Phillips, who told her husband, who told his niece, who works with a friend of mine, who told me. So Mrs. Turner, Ms. Johnson, Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Phillips, Joyce, Kyle, me." Another sip of the tea, and the cup was empty. Seeing the vaguely flabbergasted look Mrs. Hudson had on, Aidan grinned. "I told you it was roundabout."

"Goodness, dear. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

Aidan laughed. "Not really, no."

Mrs. Hudson finished her tea and set her cup down. "Well, let's go show you. Mind the steps, they're a little creaky."

Excellent, an early warning system of sorts. And, indeed, they did creak as the two women went down to the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson opened the bottom door, and Aidan beheld the barrenness of the place she was considering to have as her new home, of sorts.

She could see why Mrs. Hudson had been worried. 221C was not quite a dump, but it wasn't in any way in prime condition, either. It could use a good renovation, for which neither of them had the money. The wallpaper was torn away where it had been peeling, the painted walls were stained from dirt, and the carpet was a few shades darker than it had been originally. It was clear that attempts had been made at cleaning up the place, but one could only do so much, especially an older woman with a hip problem. The smell of must hung in the air, and had Aidan any other choice she might have changed her mind about the place. Of course, she didn't, so she accepted the signs of damp and started thinking about how she could fix it.

Aidan peered around the nearly empty flat and took note of the second-hand appliances, bedroom furnishings, and kitchen table. There was no other furniture in the place, but that was fine and could be fixed over time. She would have a bed, dresser, table, fridge, oven, microwave, and toaster, and that was more than enough for her. She had lived in worse conditions, and had suffered through having none of those amenities once. It was not an experience she would soon forget, not the least what had come with that.

She would get a cheap chair, of course, so she could have a place to sit. She would get a wooden one, but it needed to be able to go in the cab with her when she bought it. A folding chair, then, would have to do. And she would get a mattress protector and bedding for her room, plus some basic foodstuffs for the kitchen. She would also need some pots and pans, and the necessary cooking utensils—she figured she could wait on those and borrow from her new neighbors in the meantime—along with some cheap dishes and plastic or silverware. Cups, too, would be nice; just some thin plastic ones would do until she had the money to properly stock her kitchen. Yes, a few cleaning supplies on the get-go, and she would be just fine in this place.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting patiently for her as she tested the faucets and poked at the nooks and crannies. Having finished her exploration, Aidan returned to her prospective landlady and nodded. "The damp won't bug me, and I'll see what I can do to fix it. What were you hoping to rent it out for?"

The old woman spread her hands. "To be quite honest, I hadn't ever thought that I would be able to rent it out, especially in this state. And since you're such a nice and wonderful young woman, willing to put up with this place, I'll give you a low price on it all." They discussed costs for a while, smoothing out all the details of the lease. At the end of it all, Aidan stood in Mrs. Hudson's flat again with the lease papers set before her, pen held above the signatory line in a moment of hesitation.

Her hand trembled briefly as she stared at the document. Was she willing to commit to this? A place of her own; neighbors she could be acquaintances with; a landlady toward whom she already felt affection; roots that would grow and grow, making it hard and painful to tear away from should all go south. Could she really take that chance, let herself become close to all of this?

The signature she scrawled wavered not an iota. The prospect made her nervous, yes, but why let that win out?

Mrs. Hudson placed Aidan's copies of her keys into her hand. "Here you are, dear. This one unlocks the front door, and this other one unlocks your flat's door. Do you need help with any luggage? I can't help you, myself—my hip, you see—but I'm sure the doctor would be quite willing to help you. Sherlock, not so much."

Aidan shook her head and smiled, noting the mention of another housemate. "Thanks, but no. It's just this bag for now, but I'll go shopping right away and get some things for the flat. Most of it will have to wait until I have more money. I'm sure you understand. Though, more than one chair will have to wait."

The landlady went to file the papers away. "Well, if you ever need to borrow something, just come knock on my door. In fact, you're welcome to use my kitchen until you get your own supplies."

The smile turned into a genuine grin. She might have been leery about forming connections, but she wasn't about to stop this now. "Thanks, ma'am. I just might take you up on that offer. Could you perhaps tell me what shops are around here?"

Mrs. Hudson shooed her away. "You go put that in your rooms, then come back here. I'll have a list all written up for you. Do you have a way of looking up directions?"

"An iPhone. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You have got to be the best landlady ever."

The woman blushed at her praise, and the beaming grin with which she delivered it. "It's nothing, dear. You're practically a breath of fresh air compared to Sherlock. Speaking of which, there's no sense in waiting around for him. There's no telling when those boys will get back."

Aidan laughed and picked up her duffel bag. "I'll just go put this away, then. See you in a jif'."

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_Uploaded 8-8-13_


	2. Chapter 02

**Chapter Two**

She ended up spending several hours in the shops, searching for what she needed. In the end, she had a full load of bags filled with a quart of milk, various other basic food stuffs, her needed bedding—sheets and a duvet cover—plates, bowls, silverware, and a couple warmer changes of clothes. It was quite a feat to lug all of that to the taxi, especially considering she had also found her cheap metal folding chair.

The cabbie was nice enough to help her unload it all when she returned to 221 Baker Street. When he asked if she wanted help carrying it in, she shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I've got it, I think. How much do I owe you?"

She paid the man, sending him on his way, and then went to open the door. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm back now!" she called out, guessing that her landlady would appreciate a heads up. She said nothing more, but collected her purchases from the bottom of the steps and turned to go in.

Aidan clamped down on her instinct to jump or go for her taser. The man who had stolen her cab that morning stood in the doorway, sans the coat and scarf. He was dressed in a sharp, expensive charcoal gray suit that matched the quality of the Belstaff coat he had worn. His eyes, cold and sharp and a very light blue, seemed to stare past whatever masks she could conjure. Not that she was interested in conjuring any masks at the moment; she would much rather get her things into her flat than invite more scrutiny from the man who could only be Sherlock Holmes.

She cleared her throat when he didn't move after several moments. "Excuse me, please," she said, resisting any urge to get annoyed. _Be a nice new neighbor, that's it. Be polite enough to let him forget about you, but not too polite or impolite enough to make him irritated._

If anything, her request seemed to make him settle just a little bit more into the doorway. "Who are you?" he asked, scowling.

The beleaguered woman sighed and put everything on the ground again. It was clear that she wouldn't be getting past right away, not until she answered his questions or Mrs. Hudson came to rescue her. "Name's Aidan. You?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You're a bartender, or at least that's what I can deduce from your hands. You haven't done it for a while, though, so you've been out of a job. No pets, and you're carrying a taser—small, personal model—in that large left pocket of yours. You also know some form of hand-to-hand combat. So you're security conscious, been taught how to take care of yourself. Your income is very unsteady, with periods of higher and lower paychecks—those cargo pants of yours are bought second-hand, but that jacket was custom-made and built to last. That iPhone, too, is not cheaply come by. That hair of yours isn't naturally blonde, it was black and is bleached and dyed. You wear contacts, too, but not to correct your vision, or at least you've not worn glasses . . . You're new to London, you haven't even settled into a flat yet. New job then, fresh start, don't want to be recognized for some reason. Trying to get away. Estranged from your family and friends, no doubt. Good control of your temper, I will give you that. And there's something else . . ." His brow furrowed, his scowl deepening. "Have you ever worked in law enforcement?"

Aidan blinked. "Never been a police officer or federal agent, no. A friend is, not me."

"Hmm. American, but born to British parents who had a thing for uncommon names. An older sibling or two, but you are not in contact. You don't really know Mrs. Hudson, though you've known of her. You did, in fact, meet her this morning. Extra cup for tea in her sink, several hours old. A mention that someone would be by later, and that I was to be on my best behavior. She likes you, but it's more than that. A flat—you've moved into the basement." He straightened, becoming even more intense. "Are moving. You wanted to meet me, but don't want to be remembered by me. Your posture says it all, and the way you speak. You're not just polite on purpose, oh no. It's deliberate, controlled. You've been warned about me, and have deduced just enough to be able to gauge how much would make me remember you by insufferable civility. Had I not been performing this autopsy, of sorts, I might have even missed it. Bravo, you are a clever one. Not likely a criminal, your comments to Mrs. Hudson have spoken to that as you have stuck around. You're desperate for a place to live, seeing as you've rented 221C—Mrs. Hudson has tried and failed due to the damp to rent that place out. Only a desperate man or woman would rent it. So you have a job, bar tending most likely, and you needed a place to move in right away. Nothing to your name but the clothes on your back and the items now in the dresser drawers, plus those things at your feet. So you really don't care where you live, as long as you can afford a roof over your head and a bed to sleep in. And you're confident, very confident, since despite all warnings about me you are still moving in."

This was all said with only the occasional brief pause for breath, only one wait for her to answer his question. He looked a bit bored, delivering it all at a brisk speed and not much variance in tone to start with. He did seem to get a little more intrigued as he went along, and seemed almost puzzled by her at the end. Clearly done and waiting for her answer, he brought back the scowl and crossed his arms.

Aidan clapped, a little softly and at a slower pace than genuine applause would merit. "Well done. I see how you can be a consulting detective, you really are quite good. No mention of my stubborn independence?"

"It hardly needs mentioning. You let the cabbie help only enough to get the bags out of the car, but you didn't want help carrying anything in. No, that's not it. You don't trust him enough to let him in. Have you been reading John's blog?"

She shook her head and smirked. "No, I just don't trust easily, though I make an exception for Mrs. Hudson. She comes pre-approved, of course. Friend of a friend of a friend, and all that. Can I come in, now? You're blocking the door, and I have milk to put in my fridge."

Sherlock stepped back, then looked suspicious. "When did Mrs. Hudson get a fridge for that flat?"

"You're asking me? Ask the one who bought it, and the other appliances. I don't suppose I could get you to carry my chair or something?"

Surprisingly, he walked down the steps and picked up the requested item. "So not too proud to ask for help. I see it now. And I should have deduced that from Mrs. Hudson's list that she gave you earlier. Did I get anything else wrong?"

The smile Aidan answered him with was bitter. "Little brother. I have an older sister, but I also have a little brother." He had missed some other facts aside from this, but she was more inclined to keep them a secret, given what truths lay behind the walls she was attempting to build before Sherlock's deductions. Instead, it would be easier to let him think what he did. Aidan would deal with the day he found out when it came. Until then, it was not a problem. For now, it would be best to let his other mistake be a red herring.

He sighed. "It's always something. Come on, then, hurry up. I have an experiment to get back to. What's your last name?"

Right, she hadn't included that bit, had she? Well, he'd find out regardless, so she might as well tell him now. "Mallory," she said. "Look me up if you want, but you won't find anything interesting. I'm nobody from nowhere, and would rather much appreciate it if you _didn't_ go digging with my family."

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course not. I know all I need or want to, just from my observations."

Even if that was ridiculously arrogant and overconfident, Aidan wasn't going to argue. He had agreed not to look into her background—at least she thought he had—and pressing the matter would only make him curious.

He didn't wait, but led the way into the house at a pace she made no attempt to match. Inside the house, she caught sight of a man coming down the steps, former military by the looks of him. Blonde, also with blue eyes—though his were not quite as light or gray as the dark-haired giant in front of her. He was just below average height, though standing next to Sherlock made him look shorter. Even then, when he stepped up to them, she could see how the two friends—and they were definitely friends, going by their demeanors—subtracted nothing from the other by way of stature and bearing. Quiet, unassuming, but deadly in a pinch, the shorter man was definitely one who would make you regret underestimating him.

She could definitely grow to like this Dr. Watson.

As he approached, he saw her armload of bags and reached out to take some from her. "Here, let me help you with that."

"Oh, thanks." Aidan smiled. Yet another point towards the man. "You must be Dr. Watson."

"John, please. How did you know?"

"With what Mrs. Hudson has mentioned, who else could you be? You're certainly not the eccentric one."

John choked back a laugh, and the subject of their conversation rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, that's certainly a good word to use for Sherlock. Where to with these?"

"Downstairs," the detective cut in, sounding annoyed. "She's Mrs. Hudson's new renter, do keep up."

"Sorry about him, uh . . ."

"Aidan Mallory. Just call me Aidan, please, not Ms. Mallory. I get enough of that already from people at the bank, and if we are to be neighbors then I'd rather you call me by something more personal. I'm sure you understand."

"Quite right. Anyway, sorry about Sherlock, Aidan. He wasn't too rude, I hope?"

Aidan followed the rapidly departing Sherlock toward the basement. "Gave a running commentary on me, but it was quite fascinating and not as invasive in his telling and his guesses as it could have been. I take it he's always like this."

"Goodness, yes. Just don't encourage him, please. He doesn't need the ego boost."

"Trust me, I've dealt with worse." And she had, at that. Reaching her door, she rolled her eyes at the impatience her tall new neighbor displayed. After unlocking it, she allowed him to go down the stairs first. Inside the flat itself, she watched as he wrinkled his nose at the room's condition. "Thank you for carrying that down, Mr. Holmes. You can head back to your experiment if you'd like."

"Sherlock," he answered. "As you say, we are to be neighbors." He didn't actually seem to care what she called him, but she appreciated the permission to use his given name. He didn't seem interested in going anywhere either, so Aidan supposed he was curious what she had done with the flat. Well, she doubted he would be surprised at its lack of anything, based on his earlier statements and her having only just moved in.

She put her bags on the floor by the kitchen. Sherlock breezed past to look around, and John followed her. "No chairs yet?" He sounded sympathetic, but not pitying, and Aidan guessed that he knew how it went. His clothes were a far cry from being as expensive as what his flatmate wore, but they were functional and looked comfortable, easy to move in.

Aidan grinned, and nodded to the folding chair that Sherlock had put on the carpet. "One. I'll deal with furniture after the place gets fixed up. Right now I'm happy to have a bed and a fridge to go with the shower and toilet. Here, let me sort through those. I'm sure you know what the place looks like, and it's not much yet, so a tour can wait."

"Didn't really look much last time I was in here, actually, though I think it was worse off than this. We were all focused on the pair of shoes the possibly insane criminal mastermind had placed . . . Right there, actually."

He suddenly seemed to regret what he had just said, lowering his pointing finger, but she just laughed. "Yes, well. I'll have to take a look at your blog that Sherlock mentioned."

"Sherlock mentioned my blog?"

"Asked if I had been reading it." Kneeling on the floor, she started going through her bags. "Something about cabbies? He stole my cab this morning, actually."

Having returned to the living room, Sherlock turned to face her, distracted from whatever musings he had. "Did I?"

"It was near the train station." She looked up, having moved the milk jug to the side. "You really didn't notice, did you?"

"Should I have?" He waved a hand, dismissing the matter. "You got here, on any count. And you're not angry with me, so you don't really care."

Aidan snorted. "I may not be mad at you, or even annoyed, but for someone so observant you were unusually absent-minded in that. Or is it that _you_ just don't care?"

"He just doesn't care," John answered for his friend.

"I was busy." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I had a lead, and I was chasing it down. And because of that, I caught a killer. Must I explain everything?"

"You usually do. It's the curse of having such a sharp mind."

Aidan picked up her cold foodstuffs and carried it to the dismal kitchen before any sort of annoyed response could be made in what seemed to be an old, oft repeated argument. She didn't really care why he had taken her cab, and she would rather not get involved in their detective business. She had enough problems of her own without getting dragged into theirs.

John's footsteps followed her into the kitchen, and she half-turned at the fridge to smile at him. "Thanks for the help, really. It would have been a nightmare carrying all those bags down, or even just unlocking my door without dropping any."

"No problem. Hey, if you ever want some company, just knock on our door or something. Just- Text me, first, I guess. Sherlock can be . . . temperamental around most people." The doctor shrugged, looking a little embarrassed for his friend.

Aidan shrugged in return. "I've dealt with worse than him, I think. But I'll take your advice, should I ever decide to come calling." If she would, she had yet to decide. But they swapped numbers, John giving her his flatmate's as well just in case, and Aidan went back to her task.

He stood there for a moment, a bit awkwardly going by the shifting of his weight from left to right, apparently knowing she'd rather do this on her own. "Well, then," he finally said. "I'll let you get to it. It was a pleasure meeting you, Aidan. Pop up any time."

She spared him a wave in farewell as he went, and paused to listen for any sign of Sherlock's presence. After putting the last of her groceries away, a quick check of the flat revealed that the detective had gone, probably while John had been talking to her in the kitchen. Satisfied, Aidan closed the door at the top of the stairs and locked it with a pleasant _click_.

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_Uploaded 8-9-13_


	3. Chapter 03

**Chapter Three**

Aidan clapped remnants of dust from her hands and went back to her bedroom. She had quite the conundrum before her. Sherlock Holmes would doubtless find out about her true profession sooner rather than later, but what sense was there in making it easy on him? She wasn't here on vacation, after all, and being noticed was the last thing she needed.

Should she, then, carry her Glock with her? She was not dealing with mere civilians, after all. But she had to get to work, and a taser wouldn't cut it, not on its own. So the gun it was, then. But how? Shoulder holster? Tucked into the back of her jeans, beneath her jacket? The latter held promise, for now—at least until she could come up with a plausible explanation for carrying a weapon that would fulfill Sherlock's insatiable need to know.

Back of the jeans it was, then, after removing the weapon from her hiding spot she had made by taping an envelope of sorts above the inside of the closet door. She'd figure things out later. Bar job in a bad part of town, perhaps. Michael could help her cook up some sort of cover story, perhaps, with a special license for carrying this. Did they make those? She really needed to look up London's gun laws . . . She had an actual permit for carrying, what with her line of work, but she didn't want her housemates to find out right away. There was no telling how problematic that would or wouldn't be.

Mrs. Hudson was in the entry hall when she came up the inside steps, dusting away. "Oh, Aidan, dear. Going out? I'll be making dinner for myself in a couple hours if you'd like to join me."

"Thank you, ma'am." Aidan gave her an honest smile. "I'm off to work, actually, so I'll be back late, I think. Don't wait up, I'll see you in the morning."

"All right, then." Mrs Hudson shooed her off with her duster. "You'd best get on, then, if you don't want to be late. Be careful, now."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Aidan grinned and waved goodbye.

A cab answered her hail readily enough, and she got inside, but only after sending a parting wave to the upstairs window. If John or Sherlock saw her wave, fine; if they didn't, Mrs. Hudson could tell them what she had gone of to do. Not even sparing the thought of sending a text—she didn't know any of her housemates that well, after all, so why should she bother?—she directed the cabbie downtown. This was not her final destination, of course, but habit had long since been ingrained in her. Disappearing amongst the crowds, she slipped down to the Tube and took it over to the next station. Once there, she grabbed another cab and sent it toward a less wealthy part of town, away from the CCTV cameras that seemed to be shadowing her. On a deserted street that was absent of those cameras, she paid her cabbie and went in search of another. This time, she managed to find one without being in view of any spying lenses.

The building she finally disembarked at was all graffitied brick and boarded windows, dressed its best for the purpose it held. She stepped inside, studying the dim and musty wooden corridor that led to a set of double doors illuminated by a pair of white lamps, before which a man in a black suit and tie stepped out to meet her. Knowing what was expected, Aidan pulled her wallet from her jacket and held it out. Scanning her ID, the bouncer nodded her through and she opened the doors.

A large, well-kept room greeted her, circular tables scattered throughout, a long bar set up on one side of the place. Most of the wall space was dedicated to monitors displaying local and foreign news, and to the several dozen wanted posters of bounties from ranks D through A and S. At the tables sat mixed gatherings of men and women, just a couple teenagers here and there, all conversing about any leads they could offer one another, or just relaxing after a job well done. None were obviously armed, no more than she was. Sweepers**—bounty hunters—weren't at all flamboyant sorts, despite any rumors to that degree. You had to be good at it to last long in this career choice, either financially or physically, and showing off tended to hinder more than help. The cops appreciated the help on occasion, which was sanctioned individually by the International Bureau of Investigations**. That was more of a fancy title, really, than an indication of anything too useful. If the IBI had anything going for them, it was that they had jurisdiction in all cooperating nations, and their licensed Sweepers could go anywhere. Of course, she never spoke too badly of them, except in a teasing sense, for she knew several good men and women who served as agents.

The man who stood behind the bar looked more like a wrestler than a bartender, built large and tough with a shining scalp and a grizzly black full beard. His dark eyes were sharp, his body scarred, but despite his otherwise intimidating appearance a broad grin had stretched itself out upon that fearsome visage. "Mallory! I didn't expect you in here until day after next."

Aidan vaulted the bar, ignoring other avenues of passage, and allowed him to sweep her into a gigantic bear hug. "Long time, Mike. Yeah, I managed to sort out accommodations earlier than I thought, and I decided to come back early from Carmarthen out in Wales."

"Good for you." Michael Yates thumped her on the back when he let go of her, but she stood her ground instead of stumbling. "Isaacs know you're here?"

She stiffened for a moment, then sighed and shook her head. "I told you the situation. Of course he doesn't."

"Hmm." He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Right, then. My office?"

She followed him back, smiling at fond memories. This wasn't her first time in London, she had been here once before for a month, three years ago. In that time, she had met and become good friends with the man who ran the city's Sweeper Bar. When the time had come to return, to drop off the face of the planet for most everyone in her life, she had called Mike, knowing he would keep her presence quiet, even from Sam.

Mike seemed to notice the way she eyed the cameras, as if they were a snake ready to bite her. "Don't worry, they're a closed system. You know we like to keep things in-house. Nah, your real worry is the CCTV cameras in town."

"Speaking of those, they've been stalking me today." Aidan frowned. "Any idea why?"

The bartender closed the door to his office after Aidan had stepped inside, then went to sit in a cushioned chair on the other side of the room from his desk. Aidan sat in the one facing him and waited for an answer, knowing if anyone could give her one it would be this man.

Mike considered the problem, and leaned back in his chair and scratched through his beard at his left cheek. "I'm not sure. I can hijack the feed and the controls, as you know, but I didn't even know you'd be here. You don't need to worry about Alders in this case, there hasn't been a peep from him outside of the States. If I had to guess, I'd say someone in the government was . . ." He sat up, straight as a flagpole and with all the stiffness of rigor mortis. "Aidan, where did you move in? You said you had a list of a hundred or so places to choose from; which London address did you pick?"

Aidan blinked. "221 Baker Street, why?"

Mike barked out in laughter and collapsed into his chair. "A housemate of Sherlock Holmes. I should've known. I'd wish you luck, but I know you don't believe in it. Besides, it wouldn't do you much good. Well, that solves that mystery."

"Why, who's been spying on me?" Aidan scowled when he didn't answer. "Mike . . ."

"Oh, don't you worry. You'll find out soon, I'd say. Oh, this is precious." He grinned at her, eyes glittering in amusement. "Trust me, if it's who I think it is then you can handle him. I've got no authority to counter him, and we can't involve Isaacs or he'll know where you are. And I don't trust anyone else with you. But you're stubborn, and you've got a clean record. The nosy bastard just might like you."

Aidan rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you're enjoying this. Speaking of Sherlock, I need to be sure I'm tending bar at least a couple hours every night so that I'm not lying when I carry out his deduction about me."

Mike's eyebrows skyrocketed. "He doesn't know you're a Sweeper?"

"No, oddly enough. He knows I know martial arts, but he decided I'm a bartender and then asked if I was in law enforcement. I told him I'm not a police officer or federal agent, and that was the end of that. Sure, I do tend bar on occasion, but I need to be doing it regularly. He'll get suspicious otherwise."

He shook his head. "Wonder of wonders. Everyone knows what the man's brain is like, and that he's usually right about everything with one or two small exceptions in each character summation. But that's pretty big."

"I'll run with it for now, regardless. I'm not passing up this opportunity. So, can I?"

"Yeah, sure." Mike stood and went to his desk, grabbing a schedule from the mess of papers. "So, two hours each time, hmm? Early evening all right with you, from five to seven? And we'll give you the cover story of running down leads for the Sweepers, so that'll be why you carry a weapon and why you aren't in the bar most of the time. All the fun happens after dark, anyhow."

Aidan thought that over. "That will work. Thanks, Mike, you're awesome."

"I know." Mike grinned, and winked at her. "All right, let's go refresh your bar tending skills. We don't get many fancy drinks called for, here, but you should familiarize yourself with the brands at least. I'll find you some easy bounties to start out with, and you can bring them to the city police. New Scotland Yard is where that new housemate of yours visits, so if you go anywhere else you shouldn't have to worry about being discovered. And for the love of life, do try and keep from blowing anything up, this time."

She snorted. "That was hardly my fault. Marsden made the bomb and installed it, not me. I evacuated everyone, you'll recall, before he set it off. I was already on my way to him when the place exploded."

"Whatever. Catch your bounties a little faster next time, will you? I had Scotland Yard calling, and had IBI agents and British government officials complaining to me all day."

"I evacuated everyone," Aidan repeated. "Why so much fuss? It's not as if it was Downing Street."

"No, but it was the home of a very important man in the British government. Or a second home, at least. Fortunately for all of us, it wasn't the family mansion."

Aidan stuck her tongue out and grinned cheekily. "Next time I'm chasing a bomber, then, I'll put the building before the people, shall I?"

Mike sighed, but gave in to his laughter. "You're nuts, you are. If you weren't trying to lay low, I'd worry about what havoc you would wreak upon the city. As it is, though . . ." He smirked, and opened his office door to lead her out. "I do so look forward to seeing how you get on with Holmes. It's going to be an interesting time, I think. Come on, we shouldn't leave Potts alone too long, he's still a little new. I'll get you your gear later."

* * *

****** Sweepers, Sweeper bars, and the International Bureau of Investigations are borrowed from Kentaro Yabuki's manga _Black Cat_. Only these are used in this story. Nothing else of that world will enter into this story. This is a _Sherlock_ fanfic only, and only uses these ideas as plot devices and as an occupation for Aidan.

**Uploaded 8-25-13**


	4. Chapter 04

Thank you for the review, **Ticker**, and thank you to all of those who have read this so far. I hope I am able to make this story interesting for you all. :-)

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**Chapter Four**

Sunset found her in a skate park decorated with the art of the street. The wheels of skateboards rattled along the concrete, clattering upon the landings: _Shoop_, _kssssssh_. The boards spun in air, kissed rubber soles in a searing embrace, and said farewell for a short time as they soared free. Bikes—shiny, rusty, short and tall—played along in the endless game of "Who's the better dancer?"

Through this all, Aidan walked. She had come here alone, on foot, searching for whatever lead she could scrounge up. She had learned years ago that the best places for information were the bars and the streets, and that the young and old who frequented these places were better than any other source by far. They and the homeless were the eyes and ears of the city, the information network. And as she passed the territory markings and the occasional slander, the place seemed to enfold her in its embrace. This was her element, not a fancy office or folding jeans in a shop. Her workplace was the streets. They were her gym, her cubicle, her backyard.

Aidan stopped by a boy, mid-teens and middle-class by the look of him, and waited until he finished tying his shoes. "Hey, I'm looking for Luke. You see him around, lately?"

The kid looked up at her, studying her appearance, then nodded sharply. "He's over by the ramp with Benson. You know what he looks like?"

"Yeah, we've met a few times. Thanks."

She left him to return to the rails and headed in the direction of the ramp the kid spoke of. It was one of several in the underground park, but it was definitely the most prominent and decorated.

Luke, one of her old contacts from the last time she was in London, glanced over as she approached and did a double-take. "Nicky?"

Aidan winced. "Don't call me that," she said, feeling the rote of her response moving her lips for her. "How've you been, Luke?"

"Not bad. Ah, Benson, this is Nic." The tall young man waved a hand in her general direction and shrugged his broad shoulders. "She comes to us for info, sometimes. Sweeper, you know. Nic, bud of mine, Benson. His mum works with Scotland Yard."

Aidan and Benson shook hands. "Good to meet you, Benson."

"Yeah. Good to meet you, too." Benson was about a foot shorter than his towering friend, who stood 6'8", but that did nothing to diminish his own stature. He wasn't wiry by any means, but was all lean muscle and unassuming, quiet power. His hands were callused and scarred, indicating that they were used quite heavily, and his handshake spoke of denser bones and joints which in turn spoke of fighting. Not Tae Kwon Do, not Kung Fu, not boxing . . . and not Karate, either, by the way he held himself. Fascinating. Well, with a mother in law enforcement he wasn't likely to have automatically gone for something obvious.

He withdrew his hand, and she blinked as he stepped back again. Ah, Hapkido, if she read the body language right. It was a good choice, and it looked like he had trained his body well for it.

Luke crossed his pale arms, completely the opposite of his friend with his gangly build. Despite this, Aidan knew he was a fast sprinter, and that the Parkour skills belied by his thin arms enabled his getaways even more. "You're not here for pleasure," he said, and Aidan smiled. He was shrewd, and could easily tell when certain things were going on by watching body language as she did.

"No, I'm not," she answered. "C-Rank. The name is Bishop Palmer, and he's wanted for armed robbery. He was last sighted in Sutton, heading toward central London. Bounty's a thousand, and if you get me the lead I need you will receive two hundred from that, one-fifty each if it's the both of you together. You have my number, call when you have the info." She pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket and passed it over. "Here's the poster. Take a good look."

They looked, and she let them study the mark's appearance and provided information. When they were done, she took the poster back and tucked it away. Another look at Benson's hands, and she smiled. "Luke, here, teaching you how to be a traceur?"

Benson nodded. "Yeah, and I'm teaching him some defense techniques."

"Good, very good." Aidan nodded to the both of them and took a step away. "Give me a call when you find anything. Nice to meet you, Benson."

They said farewell and she walked back toward the waning daylight. It had taken her longer than she had thought to find Luke, and though the sun was still making its way to the horizon she knew it would be dark in a couple hours. If she wanted an easier time of searching, she had better get on her way now, before the streetlights made recognizing a face difficult.

Her phone, set to vibrate, buzzed before she was halfway down the street. It was from Mike, she saw, and the message that followed set a pep to her steps as she changed direction for the nearest Tube station.

_New tip: BP sighted in E Lond._

She forwarded the text to Luke, figuring his help could be useful and wouldn't be too risky for him at the moment. If he didn't actually approach the guy then he shouldn't encounter too much trouble, in theory, and Benson could help the two of them stay safe. The odds, she could say, were enough in the boys' favor that she didn't automatically write off any idea of their aid.

Then Aidan stopped, frowning at the black car parked on the road in front of her, right where she would have crossed the road. The single security camera on the intersection blinked off, she noticed with trepidation, and then a woman stepped out of the car.

She did nothing, said nothing, but merely stood there with the door open beside her. Her expression was blank, but not forbidding, and something like amusement twinkled in corners of her dark eyes. Aidan stared for a long moment then, with a sigh, took the silent invitation and got in the vehicle.

The woman entered the car after her, closing the door which in turn gave the signal for the driver to pull away from the curb. A hand dipped slowly, open in its movements, into a jacket pocket and removed a cell phone with a sliding keyboard, and Aidan forced herself to relax a bit. Her weapon had not been taken from her, nor had any threatening movements been made as of yet. The entire situation put her on edge, but she knew that no answers would be forthcoming. She would simply have to wait until they arrived at their destination.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, the car pulled into an empty warehouse. The headlights lit up the open space, the lone occupant of the building silhouetted by the white beams. As the car shut off, the headlights dying, the warehouse lights compensated for the difference and cast strange shadows on the ground. There was no one else there, no chairs and no weird shapes. Aidan got out, followed by the woman and the driver, and faced the man with grudging respect.

"Brilliant, I have to say," she confessed. "You obviously know who and what I am, and my wariness. Open building, no chance of anyone hiding. Windows are blocked off, the rafters clearly lit, so no snipers either. You had your people get out of the car so I could keep an eye on them, and you stand with no weapon or potential weapon in your possession save for that umbrella with a sword hidden in the handle. You also haven't taken my gun from me, which means you want me to retain some sense of control, and you don't want to be seen as my enemy." She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in his stance and his features. "I don't know you, though."

The man who had sent for her, clearly, twirled his umbrella then held it in both hands. "No, you don't, and you wouldn't. I will be straight with you, Ms. Mallory, which as anyone can tell you is quite unusual when meeting me for the first time."

"Yes, you seem the enigmatic sort." She narrowed her eyes. "You're the one who's been stalking me with the CCTVs, aren't you? And based on Mike's comment earlier, you have some sort of connection with one of my new housemates."

"Indeed, and I must apologize for the intrusion. I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. I hold a minor position in the British government-"

"Which is to say," she interrupted, "and having experienced first-hand your privileges, you're in the best position of the British government to have fingers, eyes, and ears in everything."

"Quite." Mycroft smiled, and it seemed to be a pleased sort of smile. "I must confess that if I had to choose anyone to move into Baker Street, you're a fine candidate with your observational skills. That will keep Sherlock off your back if you demonstrate them to him, or it might bring him to feel he must compete with you. Ms. Mallory, why did you choose this location?"

Aidan blinked. "You know what my situation is, right?"

"Indeed. In hiding from certain individuals, from what I've gathered." He lifted his umbrella tip and examined it, then set the end on the concrete floor. "You do realize that I am not pleased with you bringing your troubles to my country, to my city, and to my brother's home."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Aidan crossed hr arms. "You're not making it any better, you know. The less I'm on camera, the less chance I'll be found. Your systems aren't secure enough."

"I have the highest security in the country, Ms. Mallory."

"Perhaps, but it's still not secure enough. Erase all footage of me, and any searches you've done on me." She froze, a thought dawning . . . "You didn't talk to Sam about me, did you?"

"Agent Isaacs, no. I am not ignorant of the fact that no one knows where you are, excepting Michael Yates. I suppose I could call him your handler, since you are not in substantial contact with the IBI. I will be speaking with him, of course."

"He seems to know who you are, somehow. But choosing here, of all places . . . I had a list of a hundred forty-three different addresses that were safe to hide away in. I gave allusions to the western states in America, so no one will be looking in Europe yet. I have a prearranged status code, so I won't be alarming your brother when I reassure Sam of my safety when in his presence. I don't want him to know of my occupation, not if I can help it. He's content in thinking he knows me, and what I do, so I'm not too worried about him going digging." She straightened, holding her head high. "And I'm requesting, for my safety, that you stop."

Mycroft was silent for a minute or so. As he looked at her, mind no doubt going as fast as—or even faster than—his brother's, she held herself resolute. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. Now was not a time to be distracted.

The elder Holmes brother smiled. "Don't you want to get that?"

Aidan crossed her arms again, having let them drop in her relief at Mycroft's discretion. "If it's important, it will go to voicemail." She could only think of four people who would be calling her—Mrs. Hudson, John, Mike, or Luke. There was no reason why John would be calling, and Mrs. Hudson knew she was out at work and would be home late. Given the events of the night, it was likely Luke with that lead she needed. Time to wrap up this meeting, then.

Mycroft seemed to recognize her intent. "I am still not happy with your decision to lodge here, Ms. Mallory, but I highly doubt I'll get anywhere in persuading you to go elsewhere. So I have an offer for you instead."

The woman frowned. "What sort of offer?"

"Not one that would require much exertion on your part, but I figure I ought to take advantage of this opportunity as it presents itself. I would like you to keep an eye on Sherlock for me. He is very resourceful, you see, and often is able to evade my attempts at keeping track of him."

Aidan went still. "You want me to spy on him."

"Yes. For his safety, I assure you. You'd simply be reporting when he's gone out of the house and when he's returned, and where you go together. There was an incident a while ago, you see, in which he had to fake his death to preserve the lives of his few friends. I made a mistake, and only my aid in hunting down Moriarty's organization won back any trust Sherlock has in me. I do not want his life to be in danger again, though I know all too well that his line of work makes this a vain hope."

"So you want me to spy on him," she said, feeling hung up on that idea. Nothing sat well in her about that thought.

He nodded. "Yes, I do. Well, not so much spying as informing, reporting. I'd rather you were the least involved in Sherlock's life as possible, but those who live near him tend to get sucked into the vortex of his life. You may try to stay away, Ms. Mallory, but you won't be able to. Your supposed job as a bartender presents the ready availability of rumors to him, and he will draw on that at some point. He will drag you along, and you will not be able to resist that lure. You crave the adventure; you wouldn't be a Sweeper, otherwise."

Aidan shifted her balance to her heels and frowned. The thought was not very appealing, given her situation. But this informing business needed to be dealt with first, before it could cause problems. "I apologize, but I can't. What you're asking me to do goes against my conscience."

He was not fazed much. "You ask others to do so, do you not?"

Her smile was flat and thin. "Your analogy fails. Sherlock is not a criminal."

Mycroft regarded her with what seemed to be concern. "Is there no way I can convince you? I could pay you handsomely for your services."

"No, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft. Whatever you want me to call you." She sighed. "Sherlock's business is his own, and I don't want to become involved in it. Look, I appreciate the fact that you're worried for your brother. I would be, too. But I'm not a spy, I'm not a busybody. I cannot tell you when he goes out, when he comes in, and where he drags me if he ever does. But-" She tilted her head to the side, an idea dawning. "I can protect him, when he's near. I can even shadow him on his more dangerous cases. Just give me a call, and I'll go see if he needs protection or not. If he does, then I'll keep to the background and stop whoever tries to hurt him. And if he ever does drag me along—perish the thought—then I'll keep an eye out then, too. I just won't tell you what he's up to, not anything you can't find out on your own."

He opened his mouth, closed it, and repeated the process. A couple goes at this, and he stopped to think about it. She waited, half wishing _she_ had stopped to think before she proposed this alternative. After all, wasn't she trying to distance herself from people, to not get close to them? This active involvement in her housemates' lives would not contribute to this goal.

Mycroft nodded after a short time. "This is acceptable. How would you like me to pay you for your services?"

Aidan winced. Okay, so she had just signed herself up to be a bodyguard. Well, she could work with this. "All I want is help with my cover story, and a special license for carrying my firearm. Talk to Mike and he'll fill you in. If he wants confirmation that I sent you his way, tell him I said that Luke is on the job for hunting down Palmer."

She took a step back, keeping the driver and the woman in view as she did so. "If that is all?"

Mycroft blinked, then waved his hand. "Of course. You may go if you wish. Would you like a ride to your destination?"

Aidan wrinkled her nose. "Too showy. My target would be gone by the time I entered the building. Well, it's been fun. This is where I say goodbye, good riddance, you're annoying."

He chuckled, obviously amused. "Yes, well. Do stay alive, Ms. Mallory."

She turned her back and left the warehouse. The black car drove past her through the open doors when she paused to check her phone, and she paid it only as much attention as she needed to. It was Luke who had called, and her lips curled upwards at what the call meant.

_"Hey, Nic. Tip paid out, BP is in an old flat above the bar by the skate park with the creepy door. Boys say he's gone every afternoon, drinks in the bar every evening, and then goes upstairs where he stays until the next afternoon. He's in the bar now, but it's close to the time that he goes upstairs. Benson wants to know if you want backup. We'll be in the skate park if you do. Nice to have you back in town, by the way. See you around. Bye."_

Aidan put her phone away and walked away from the warehouse. It was time to do her job.

* * *

_Uploaded 9-8-13_


	5. Chapter 05

****Thanks for reviewing, **Misplaced Levity**! I hope that I do not disappoint. :-)

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**Chapter Five**

The encounter with Mycroft Holmes weighed heavily on her mind as she rode the Underground toward the east side of London. She didn't doubt she would come to regret her rash deal with him on some level, and that her time in London would not be going as she initially planned—not after this.

But she shoved that thought away. She had a job to do, not the one she had accidentally walked into but the one she had deliberately set before herself. Sherlock and whatever worries that came with him could come later, after her task was completed. If all went well, Bishop Palmer would be in handcuffs in the nearest Metropolitan Police office before two hours passed.

If all went well.

Aidan was under no illusions that this was guaranteed to be an easy job. You couldn't always trust the ranking system, though it was fairly accurate. She had once stumbled upon an A-rank by mistake, having thought him to be merely a B-rank. That cost the home of a British government official, and almost the lives that had crowded inside, and was an incident that Mike loved to tease her with—hence the earlier needling. Therefore, she would do what she always did with any mark since then: she treated him as if he were one or two ranks higher, sans the license-to-kill-if-a-big-enough-threat part. This meant a lot of stealth and there was absolutely no way that she was bringing Luke and his friend Benson into this. They had done their part; it was time for Aidan to do hers.

Her time on the Tube was spent going over a mental map of the area Palmer was holed up in. She had been there before, a couple times in fact. "The skate park with the creepy door" was a vague description, but specific enough for her to recognize. The creepy door in question was more of an iron gate barring the entrance to a dark stairway, nestled in the corner of the skate park. The lock and chain that sealed it were weathered and rusted, recalling past decades to mind with the number of years that had clearly borne witness to it. Where the stairway itself led, no one knew; that lock hadn't been removed for years, and neither Mike nor Aidan had been able to locate plans for the tunnel.

For now, however, this was besides the point. The neighboring pub was her destination, or more specifically the flats above. If she caught him at the right time, maybe she could even pull this off without a problem. That would be more than nice, it would be wonderful. One armed robber off the streets, plus seven hundred pounds in her pocket. The other three hundred, of course, she had promised to her two helpers.

The pub in question had a good crowd gathered inside as she approached from down the street. She would have to be careful that no shots were fired, especially downwards through the floor, when she went to capture him. The windows upstairs were all shut tight, she saw, but Aidan knew how to improvise. The gutter pipe on the side of the building was anchored securely to the wall, and with some caution she was able to creep up toward the roof. Before she reached that, however, she peered to the left to see what room she was outside of. A kitchen lay in wait, giving her a smile. _Perfect. _And this window wasn't locked, she found. Either Palmer had forgotten, he had left it open on purpose, or the lock was simply broken. Either way, she was going to risk it.

Her ambition paid off. The window came open quietly when she requested it to, sliding smoothly up towards the ceiling and allowing her passage to slip inside—which required a bit more maneuvering but was easy enough, considering. Inside, she found herself next to a small wooden table with a set of chairs, one of which she would have to climb over in order to get herself out of the corner she had boxed herself into.

The window closed as easily as it had opened, gloved fingers ensuring no oils were left to give away her presence. If Palmer wasn't already in bed, he would be coming up soon from the bar downstairs. She needed to be concealed by the time that happened, or all her efforts at sneaking in would be futile. She did not want a commotion on her hands, one that Sherlock would surely find out about at a glance if he was there when she returned to her new flat.

Careful to not budge anything a millimeter, Aidan climbed over the chair penning her in and toed around for any loose floorboards. The bedroom was on her left, past the kitchen counter and the fridge. Opposite her was the door to the hall, dead-bolted to prevent entry. The kitchen itself was barren, sporting some crumbs and a spot of jam on the table but aside from that everything was stowed away in the cabinets, if there was anything. There was no sign to indicate who occupied the flat, but Aidan trusted Luke to have given her accurate information—he had never failed her before—and this was the flat he had specified. Her only option now was to check the bedroom and, if he was not there, wait for Palmer in the wardrobe. Hiding in the toilet was too risky, given that the criminal had been eating and/or drinking for the past hour and would possibly enter that room shortly after returning to the flat.

As it turned out, the bedroom was empty. The toilet was a small room in the right-hand corner, walling in a shower stall, a toilet, and a small sink with a mirror above it. The door had been left open from the last time the occupant of the flat had been in here, as had the door to the bedroom. She was grateful, as it meant no approximating where the door had been open to, no suspicious bunching up of whatever rug or discarded towel had been behind the door before she got to it. Maybe her mark would be drunk enough to not notice any details, but she knew she ought to be prepared for a stone-cold sober and hyper-paranoid target. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, they said; she could think of several similar colloquialisms, but nothing original at the moment. She would stick with the tried and true words of wisdom, then, and so made sure her phone was turned all the way off. Even vibrating would make too much noise right now.

The bed was off in the left corner of the small bedroom, close to the wall of the toilet. At its foot lay the wardrobe, and between that and the door was a small desk where a few spare pence had been scattered but not much else. She eyed the the old Chinese takeaway boxes and wrinkled her nose, but the only papers she could see right now were random receipts from Tescos, a local Fish 'n' Chips shop, and the Chinese place the takeaway had been ordered from. A closer look revealed a couple day passes for the Underground, one for zones one through three and the other for zones one through four. She would collect them later, to see if they would help the police figure out what he was up to. Perhaps the shop locations and the tickets together could narrow down where Palmer had been frequenting, if this was Palmer's flat. She wasn't a detective like her new housemate, but even she knew that the add-on of zone four was potentially telling.

A rowdy cheer from the bar below woke her from her musings. Abandoning any attempt at sleuth-work, she stepped around the desk chair and stopped in front of the wardrobe. It wasn't locked, and even if it had been it was one of those cheap locks that didn't even latch. It was split into two halves, one half containing shelves on which the occupant had stored t-shirts and trousers, the other half opened up to allow space for hanging clothes, such as the leather jacket shoved to one side with a handful of button-ups. The floor of that space had a pair of steel-toed boots caked in dried mud, the same mud which speckled the jacket above them. Eyeing them, Aidan changed her mind about collecting the receipts and decided she would instead direct the police to examine the flat for clues as to what the guy was up to. Doing otherwise could mess things up, or be considered obstruction of justice. No, it was better that she did her job, and let them do theirs.

She closed the other door and slid into the space beside the boots, making sure she was far back enough from the door on her side to let it shut more or less securely. It was uncomfortable, this half-crouch she had placed herself in, especially when she was trying not to disturb the boots, but by bracing herself with her left arm she was able to stay still and not fall over. It would not be pleasant, but she had to admit that few things were pleasant about this career she had chosen.

Now to wait, and hope that this was the right place.

**. . . ... . . .**

"She's not going to let us help her, you know."

Benson turned to look at his friend, the taller boy's words coming out of nowhere. He had been pensive for the last half hour, staring silently at the iron grate in the corner of the skate park that led to a black abyss of stairs curling downwards in a tight spiral. Benson had no idea what significance it could hold, but Luke had seemed to fixate on it like nothing else existed ever since he had sat down to wait for the woman's call.

"Nic," the taller boy clarified at his sound of incomprehension, and Benson thought back to the woman who had come up to them and asked them to look for some bloke with money on his head for her. Luke continued, voice flat and sounding bored. "She's not going to let us help. We got the info, and that's as much of a risk as she's going to let us take."

"So she's going after this guy alone?" What was this woman, an idiot? His mum had always stressed that one should never be without a partner when entering a dangerous situation. "She needs backup."

Luke shook his head. "She can take care of herself."

"So can we."

"Yeah, and that's why she lets herself ask for help." He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking tired. "Remember how she fixated on your teaching me self-defense? And me teaching you Parkour?"

"Yes."

"Well, she doesn't care so much that you could attack someone and not get hurt. Come to think of it, she probably wouldn't have asked you to help me, either, if it hadn't been for my teaching you to be a traceur, and that two together is safer than me being alone."

Benson felt the corners of his lips turn sharply downwards. "Why's that?"

"She doesn't want us to fight. Just run." The blonde shrugged. "It's just how she is—she wouldn't even ask for help if she didn't need it. It's a big city, and so an information network is necessary to track down her bounties, sometimes."

"So she really is a Sweeper?"

His taller friend nodded. "Yup. And she's pretty good at it, which is obvious since she still is one. I haven't seen or heard from her in three years, so I don't know what she's been up to. She probably went back across the Pond, though, after she left."

"Wait." Benson held up a hand to stop him. "Three years? _Three years_ of silence, and you just say hello and go hunt some info willy nilly, at the drop of the hat, for a woman you haven't seen or heard from in _three years?_"

Luke shrugged. "You came, too, you know."

"Yes, because I wasn't about to let you come here alone, especially when we're up to something like this."

"Smarter than I was at fifteen, I guess. But she needed the info as soon as possible. We can catch up later if she wants to. We haven't really talked much in the past, anyway. Mostly she just asks me to find people for her." He laughed, short and sharp, a sound that sent a chill up Benson's spine. "Nic isn't even her real name, I figure."

"Then what is?"

"I don't know. Nicky? She doesn't like me calling her that, but maybe it's because it's too girly. It's safer not to know, anyway."

Benson stared at his friend's seemingly casual acceptance. It was only now, after they had found the guy, that he had begun to realize just what he was getting into, and the stories his mum had shared with him from work were not letting him be blasé about this. "Don't you even realize what's happening here?"

"Yes. Nic is doing her job."

"That's- You barely know the woman, by your own admission. And aren't you worried?"

Luke turned and met his eyes, and Benson suddenly realized just how empty they looked, how haunted. "Yes, I am. She almost died a few times in the month she was here last. But I can't do anything but wait, because if I got hurt because of this job then Nic would never forgive herself. I may not know her name, and I may not know what sort of thing she does in her free time, but I know her well enough to know this. So that's why I'm staying here, and you are, too, and not going to back her up at Palmer's flat. She can take care of herself. She always has. She has to." His voice was breaking by the end, and Benson took pity on him and offered a simple nod of understanding. He wasn't sure how much he did understand, in reality, but he would drop it for now. Maybe, in the course of helping Luke find info for this "Nic"—it was clear that his friend wasn't about to stop, not after a speech like that—he would get the answers he wanted.

And maybe, a dark thought crept up, the toughest subject to get information on in all of this would be the Sweeper herself.

* * *

_Uploaded 9-21-13_


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